


Truth and Roses

by dornfelder



Series: Significance [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Because of course he is, Geralt is Sleeping Beauty, M/M, Sadness, Unrequited Love, also oblivious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-25 12:14:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22495948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dornfelder/pseuds/dornfelder
Summary: Suffering from unrequited love was one of those things that was better observed from a distance, much like other intrinsically tragic afflictions like grief, poverty, or heroism. Jaskier tried to steer clear of all of those, and, over the years, developed some sort of instinct that helped him avoid them.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Significance [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1628431
Comments: 52
Kudos: 235





	Truth and Roses

_Jaskier hadn't asked to fall in love. He liked to sing about tragic love affairs, but that didn’t mean that he wanted to be caught up in one with no hope of ever seeing his feelings returned. It was a matter of principle, really: Suffering from unrequited love was one of those things that was better observed from a distance, much like other intrinsically tragic afflictions like grief, poverty, or heroism. Jaskier tried to steer clear of all of those, and, over the years, developed some sort of instinct that helped him avoid them. But by the time he realized that Geralt of Rivia, White Wolf of legends, witcher extraordinaire, had become more to him than some sort of curiosity, a reluctant hero providing him with inspiration, it had already been too late. The man was simply **too much**_ _in every conceivable way, an overwhelming force that Jaskier was helpless against. Without ever intending to, he had conquered Jaskier's heart before Jaskier had been aware that an ambush was taking place._

* * * * *

 __Never let it be said that Jaskier didn't recognize beauty when he saw it. The vines, some nearly as thick as tree trunks, were luscious and verdant, forming an impenetrable curtain interspersed with budding and blooming roses. This close, the sweetness of the fragrance was almost overwhelming.

The maze loomed, equally wondrous and threatening. Jaskier had made his way through the ruins of the abandoned village, carefully making sure that no one was following him. There was little danger of that: Most of the visitors – adventurers, soldiers of fortune, the occasional bard – had gathered at the northern end of the village that had once been Queen’s Hills, putting up their tents on the fallow fields near the old well that had been cleared of debris to provide them all with fresh drinking water.

Jaskier had taken one look at this new place of pilgrimage and decided to avoid it like the plague that was guaranteed to spread there within weeks. Instead he'd decided on making his approach more stealthily, through the forest west of the village. The few solitary buildings that had once stood there had long fallen to ruin. More than a hundred years ago, the villagers had fled from the fairy queen's ire, after they had stopped paying their tribute to her for the ores and minerals they mined in the hills and she'd sent her consort on a Wild Hunt, the village beset by an army of beasts great and small.

Jaskier had heard that tale on his way here, along with the other one, that a witcher had gone to hunt a monster in the hills and that shortly thereafter, the vines had started growing, a formidable wall keeping out every intruder – even those coming with torches and axes.

It was only a matter of time, however, until someone came equipped with the power to burn a path through the maze and find what was hidden at its center, the sleeping witcher, cursed to wake up only through true love's kiss.

As he had gotten close to the maze, Jaskier had started to hear a low humming. More of a rustling, in fact, but the noise itself somehow seemed to reverberate in him, finding an echo that definitely felt like a hum, a tune that became increasingly familiar. It felt like the vines were trying to tell him something.

For some reason, Jaskier didn't think that anyone else could hear them.

The maze really was of a frightening beauty. The roses came in various shades of red: blood and ruby and crimson, scarlet, bright pink, a purple so deep it looked almost black. Even more frightening were the thorns, each longer than an inch. They could tear a man to shreds. Jaskier had seen one of those unlucky fellows who had attempted to hack and slash his way through the maze and almost bled to death when the vines suddenly attacked and tried to strangle him. How the poor guy had survived, Jaskier didn't know. Not that he felt a lot of compassion – that man probably hadn't had the best of intentions.

The whole thing was the kind of material that forged legends. Under different circumstances Jaskier would have been the first to sit down beside the campfire, strumming his lute, turning the tale into verses, its gist into a chorus. Taking a great tale to make it even greater was a bard's prerogative, after all.

He didn't have that luxury now.

Jaskier sighed. Time to focus on what had to be done.

He lifted his hand, extending it toward the roses. They were listening, he was sure of it. "I've come to enter the maze and find what lies is hidden within." The humming grew a little louder in his mind, gaining, he thought, a slightly curious quality. "Let me in," he said, foregoing any kind of grand speech in favor of simply stating his intentions.

But of course, it wasn't that easy. The vines seemed confused. They didn't know what to make of him, didn't know his name or his true intentions. They were interested. They were _hung_ _r_ _y_. And if legends were to be believed … Jaskier closed his eyes. " _Try_ me."

At first, nothing happened. Then the touch came, petal-soft, and the smell grew even stronger. He had to struggle not to pull his hand back as vines began creeping along his fingers, as they closed around his wrist, wriggled up his arm. The thorns, causing little pinpricks of pain, slid along with them.

Jaskier tried to center himself. He had to think of the task at hand, nothing else mattered. When the humming grew even louder, he let the memories come. Images, etched into his mind, one after the other, strangely vivid and accompanied by sounds and smells that almost managed to drown out the humming of the fairy magic and the cloying scent of the roses.

_Geralt, his golden eyes glittering in the morning sun as he bent his head to talk to a little peasant girl, listening attentively as she told him about the monster that had taken her little sister. He didn't smile, didn't pat her shoulder in a gesture of comfort, just stood there and then nodded once, while the girl looked up to him, attempting a tremulous smile._

_Geralt was wielding his sword with deadly elegance and terrifying ease, cutting through a man's armor. A clean kill. He turned on his heel, raising his blade to block another opponent's blow._

_Geralt, leaning back against a tree, staring up at the sky – the campfire emphasizing the alien color of his hair and his eyes, illuminating a face that could have been carved from rock. For once, Geralt looked strangely peaceful, lost in contemplation._

Jaskier recalled that evening vividly. He could almost feel the strings under his hand – he hadn't been singing, just playing a few wistful notes after watching a beautiful sunset. A rare, precious moment of serenity.

There were more. Moments that he had memorized without being aware of it, so many of them, all of them linked with Geralt even when he wasn't in them.

 _Jaskier, on his knees in a barn, the stable boy's cock on his tongue, and he closed his eyes and wondered, for a moment. **What if**_. _The fingers winding through his hair were strong and callused. The smell of leather and horses surrounded him, made him feel a little lightheaded. **I wish it was him.**_

_Jaskier was looking down at Geralt who lay on his back on a narrow mattress of mildewing straw in the only tavern in town that had offered them a free room. The urge to reach out, to touch, just once, was almost overwhelming. His hands clenched into fists. He must have made some sort of noise because Geralt chose that moment to open his eyes, looking up at Jaskier who involuntarily held his breath. And then …_

_"Stop staring at me. I'm not some sort of insect for you to study."_

_"I'll have you know that I don't study insects. But if I did, your bed would be a good place to start looking for them."_

_"You were the one who insisted on sleeping in a tavern, as I recall."_

_"There are roaches here. And I'm not talking about your horse."_

Then the vines struck, and Jaskier screamed.

He had to struggle to remain still and let the excruciating pain wash over him as the thorns pierced his skin. He smelled blood, and warm wetness was trickling down his wrist. The roses drank from him, deeply, absorbing blood and memories and pain. His heart beat too fast. Afraid they were going to take too much, he tried to pull his arm back, but the vines simply dug in deeper, and ultimately, Jaskier relented and let them take. His knees buckled. He kept his eyes closed, thinking of Geralt. Of what might happen if someone else, someone who didn't mean well, devised a way to enter the maze and found him helpless in his magical sleep.

Slowly, the humming in his mind turned into a purr of satisfaction. "Let me in," Jaskier whispered numbly. The vines rustled, then finally drew back, releasing him. He sank to the ground, struggling for breath. Struggling to remain conscious.

It took a while, he couldn't say how long, before his heartbeat steadied. He opened his eyes, blinking away tears of pain that made his lashes stick together. He wiped his eyes with his uninjured hand.

Before him, there was path, leading into the maze.

Jaskier fumbled in his pockets for a handkerchief and tied it around his wrist with trembling hands. As he got up from the ground, he had to wait until a spell of dizziness had passed. He took a deep breath, then stepped into the maze. Even as he heard and saw the vines move back in place behind him, he didn't look back.

Jaskier kept on walking on a path the maze kept creating solely for him. It wasn't very wide. Whenever he got too close to the vines, another thorn pricked him – as if the vines were itching for another taste of his blood. His memories.

His love.

Jaskier didn't know how long he kept walking. Now and then, he took a short break, weak from blood loss and exhaustion. The roses urged him to hurry. There was eagerness in their humming now, a certain sense of anticipation.

It was autumn, but within the maze, the air was warm and humid. The light filtered in through the canopy of leaves and blossoms, making it impossible to tell where the magic was leading him or how long the journey took. It felt like hours. Did time pass differently here?

What had Geralt done to anger the fairy queen, for her to invoke such powerful magic?

Jaskier didn't know how long he walked among the vines. The scent of the roses made it difficult to smell anything else, even his own pungent sweat. Blossoms shook on their stems as he passed by, trembling from his steps, light as they were. The path took turns but never showed him why: There was nothing along the way but roses, neither trees, nor rocks, or animals. It was as if he had entered a different world.

In a way, he had.

 _Soon_ , the vines whispered, making his heart beat faster.

 _S_ _oon_ became _now,_ became _there_ as the roses parted in front of hiim and let in the bright afternoon sun. Before him, a steep, rocky, moss-coverd hill rose from the ground – the center of the maze, if the villagers were to be believed. A small, bubbling stream sprang from the top, water gathering in a small pool halfway down the hillside.

At the top of the hill, Jaskier could see a block of light grey stone – an altar? – and a tall figure lying on it. Lying entirely still.

He stumbled from the maze, and immediately, the path behind him disappeared. Pausing at the bottom of the hill, he took a moment to breathe and gather his remaining strength. Then he began to climb, following the stream uphill until he reached the pool.

Even though Jaskier should have known better than to drink or eat anything in a place like this, he found himself kneeling beside the pool to cup water in his hands and bend his head to drink. It filled his throat, sweet and cool, refreshing him in a way the stale water from his water skin never did. The roses were humming with a strange sense of elation. This was _right_. This was what he'd come here for.

Jaskier closed his eyes and swallowed, the elation slowly abating.

What if it didn't work?

What if it did?

He rose to his feet, took a deep breath and went on.

Reaching the top of the hill, he took a brief moment to look around. The maze extended in every direction, covering several acres of rolling hills and valleys. Powerful magic, indeed. _Geralt, you fool, what_ _have you done_ _?_ Jaskier shook his head. Then he turned to gaze down at the man lying on the stone altar.

He hadn't seen Geralt since that day on the mountain top. In some ways, Geralt looked exactly same. In others, the opposite. Dark lashes were overshadowing his face as he slept, deeply, seemingly peaceful without any outward signs of distress. That, in itself, was odd. In all those months traveling with him, Jaskier had never once gotten close enough to him to watch him sleep, not like this. Inevitably, Geralt woke when someone moved in his vicinity. Then there was the way he had been laid out, almost like a corpse, hands folded on his stomach, white hair spread out on the naked stone like a silver curtain.

 _There should be a blanket. A pillow, made of_ _red_ _velvet_ _or_ _cloth of gold._ _Soft, white fur_ _under his head._ Something, anything to signify the nature of the curse that was responsible for all of this, the act required to bring him back to life. In the tales of old, princesses were always laid out in state as befitting their station. Geralt was wearing his armor. Dried blood stained the darkened metal, his knuckles, was clumped under his nails.

Jaskier looked down at him. The humming in his head became impatient. The roses had let him in, and he had yet to fulfill the promise he had given them. Why was he hesitating?

There was something ominous in it now, as if the roses thought they had been deceived. He could feel anger lurking underneath. The fairy queen didn't like to be mocked, her magic wasn't to be taunted.

"It isn't that," he said, not knowing whether she – or rather, her magic – was listening. "I'm not deceiving you. I only …" He sighed and knelt down beside the altar, the ancient, sacred stone, sharp edges smoothed by time and elements. _I_ _only_ _wish he didn_ _'_ _t have to know._

The thought was there, unbidden, and the roses immediately picked up on it. Attuned to their magic, Jaskier could sense the discord, as if he'd managed to pluck the wrong string on his lute.

Of course, love couldn't be true if you didn't profess it – if you were afraid, cowardly flinching from the admission.

Jaskier hadn't come here to be a coward.

There was nothing for it, then. Jaskier bent his head to look at Geralt. Heavy-set jaw, hollow cheeks, a furrowed brow. Even in his sleep, Geralt was frowning. That made it a little easier, imagining that Geralt wasn't blissfully content, unwilling to be roused from his slumber.

Jasker sighed. He closed his eyes for a second. _I came here for him_ , he told the roses, silently. _And I do love him; it's just that loving him isn't always the easiest thing in the world._

He sighed, recalling everything that had led to this moment, the decision to pack his things and depart from the small town where he'd been entertaining the unwashed masses to make his way to the west, hoping that by the time he arrived at the place the people had started referring to as _Witcher_ _'_ _s_ _R_ _est_ , said witcher would already be gone, the curse lifted by one powerful mage or another, or one of the countless women secretly in love with him … Where was Yennefer of Venderberg when you actually needed her? But of course, that hadn't happened, and upon Jaskier's arrival, it had become clear that whoever might be coming to Geralt's aid was taking their bloody time, leaving Jaskier with no choice but to act. And so it had come to this, Jaskier kneeling before Geralt, wondering what he would do when Geralt woke up and asked for an explanation.

When, not if. There was no real question whether it would work; there never had been.

"True love's kiss," Jaskier said softly. "I just hope you're not going to murder me for taking liberties. And that I'm not going to murder _you_ once I see the pity in your eyes." Or worse, amusement. _Foolish bard believes himself in love with me._ Derision, or maybe scorn, because Jaskier was a man and loving other men made him _lesser than_. Yet none of those would be quite as bad as sheer indifference, a shrug and a handshake, Geralt moving on as if Jaskier and his feelings didn't matter. Which they didn't, but Jaskier didn't need an additional reminder of that.

Still, it couldn't be helped. _If my love is to be true, then I have to take a stand,_ _no matter the cost. My pride isn_ _'_ _t more precious than his life._

Geralt lay there, breathing steadily. His eyes were closed, his lips slack. As long as he kept sleeping, he couldn't judge Jaskier. As long as he kept sleeping, Jaskier wouldn't have to face the inevitable rejection.

But true love couldn't let itself be vanquished by fear.

"So be it," Jaskier whispered. He bent his head and kissed Geralt's soft, unresisting mouth.

* * * * *

The awakening happened gradually. There was no outward sign as the magic released its hold on Geralt. The humming stopped for a second only to start again, softer now and abating, and Jaskier rose to his feet, shivering as a sudden gust of wind reached the hilltop. Before his eyes, the vines and blossoms grew pale, then translucent, and finally faded away, leaving behind the forest and the hills as they must have been before. The hill at the center remained unchanged, and when Jaskier turned to look at the stone altar, Geralt was sitting up, shaking off the slumber in apparent confusion.

When his gaze fell on Jaskier, his frown deepened.

Jaskier didn't say anything. Another gust of wind made him fill his lungs with cool autumn air. Already, the scent of roses was gone. The humming inside his mind died down with something like satisfaction and … encouragement? Jaskier didn't know what prompted him to hold out his hand, but when a single, blood-red rose suddenly appeared in his palm, he closed his fingers around it, found it cool to the touch, smooth and hart: not a flower, but a gem, forged of ancient magic. And, he realized, in a flash of insight, of his own blood and everything he carried hidden within himself: love, despair, longing, the memories that the fairy queen had shared with him, and chosen to honor this way.

"Jaskier."

He turned around.

Geralt had risen to his feed with a face like a thundercloud. His voice was hoarse from disuse. "How long?"

"I can't say. Six to seven weeks, I'd guess."

"Where -"

"Roach was found at the village, or so I heard. The roses appear to have driven her away. I think some farmer took her in, but I can't say for sure. I've only been here for a day." Jaskier gave him an apologetic smile. He could feel it fading and looked away. "I don't know what happened to the rest of your gear, I'm sorry."

"No." Geralt shook his head. "What I meant is … where did she go?"

"Who?" Was he talking about the fairy queen?

"You know who I'm talking about," Geralt snapped.

Jaskier frowned. "I'm afraid I don't."

"Yennefer. She broke the curse, didn't she?"

Jaskier stared at him.

Gerald believed … he really believed … and it didn't even come to his mind that Jaskier might have been the one to kiss him? But apparently, the mere possibility was unthinkable.

Geralt was waiting for a reply, but since none was forthcoming – Jaskier was too stunned to provide one – he huffed and shook his head, then stared at the ground for a second.

 _It wasn_ _'_ _t Yennefer._ This was the moment to tell him the truth. _It was me. I came her_ _e_ _for you, I gave my blood to enter the maze, it was me who kissed you._

And then what?

Jaskier swallowed. Maybe … maybe it was better that way. Geralt didn't need to know, didn't need to hear a confession that Jaskier found himself unwilling to make, now that it wasn't required after all. He closed his fingers around the rose and let it slide into his pocket. It wasn't necessary to burden Geralt with this. Geralt didn't feel the same way, so it wasn't as if Jaskier was wasting an opportunity. He was just sparing them both a whole lot of embarrassment, an uncomfortable truth revealed through circumstance.

A clean solution to a messy problem. He could let Geralt believe that it had been Yennefer. Geralt already _did_ believe it. If Jaskier played his cards right, he wouldn't even have to lie, which always fraught with the risk of being caught. They would go their separate ways soon enough – after all, they'd parted on bad terms, and it would be easy for Geralt to assume that Jaskier had only come here out of curiosity, not concern.

And even if Geralt spoke to Yennefer at some point and learned the truth … It wouldn't matter. Jaskier would be elsewhere by then, long forgotten, the annoying mouthy bard Geralt only remembered with an eye roll and a groan, in fond exasperation, maybe, which was the best Jaskier could hope for in terms of affection.

"Where is she?" Geralt asked again, looking at him.

Jaskier met his gaze. "I don't know." That wasn't a lie, just a misleading truth. But even if he lied to Geralt, what would it matter?

Geralt held his gaze. His eyes widened a little, and for a second, they were intent. _Searching._ Jaskier's heart skipped a beat. Was Geralt – did he _know_ – would he ask –?

"What are you doing here, Jaskier? Come to gloat?"

Jaskier opened his mouth, wanting to say something, anything, to defend himself from that profoundly unfair accusation, and didn't know how. There was no way to reply to that caustic tone without giving himself away. Finally, he shook his head, mute.

Geralt snorted and turned around to walk away.

Was he was expecting Jaskier to follow?

Suddenly, Jaskier found it difficult to breathe. There was something lodged in his throat, something he had a hard time swallowing around. How could he do this, look Geralt into the face and pretend? He'd come here for Geralt, had laid his heart bare, and bled for him – shouldn't that count for something?

But that was a fool's wish, and while Jaskier acted like a fool at times, he wasn't that much of one.

With a heavy heart, he followed Geralt down the hill. He slid his hand in his pocket, touching the rose. It felt warm under his hands, and he tried to tell himself that this was enough of a reward, it would have to be, the only sort of recognition that he was likely to get. Even if Geralt never learned the truth of what had happened, someone knew, someone who had shared his memories and feelings and judged them to be true.

At the moment, that thought didn't provide a lot of comfort. In time, maybe it would.

* * * * *

 _Jaskier_ _hadn't asked to fall in love, and he didn't like it one bit once it happened. Love was painful,_ _love was futile, love was debilitating: Love was one of the most devastating emotions he had ever experienced, and what was worse was that there appeared to be no cure._

_If there had been any hope that his feelings might be reciprocated …_

_The problem, in a nutshell, was that Jaskier was insignificant to Geralt, which was a fact that he had a hard time getting to terms with. There was no way for him to forge that emotional connection that he desperately craved, the one that Geralt neither wanted nor needed._

_Partly because he was a man, and Geralt wasn't attracted to men. Partly because Jaskier was everything Geralt loathed: chatty, frivolous, in love with life. Partly because Jaskier wasn't powerful while Geralt was drawn to power, to people he felt were his equals. But Jaskier was mortal, a mere human with a limited lifespan, and Geralt tended to sort all of them into one huge category of **Breakable: Avoid Attachment At All Costs** **.**_

_Jaskier knew that, all of that, and tried not let it bother him that much. For the most part, it worked: There was ale, there were taverns, women and sometimes men willing to warm his bed (or let him warm theirs for a while, a night, a couple of days). There were songs to be played, coins to be earned, and if Jaskier spent the occasional evening lamenting his fate, drowning his sorrows in spirits, well, that was only to be expected, wasn't it?_

_But then there was the day that Geralt lashed out at him on the mountain top simply because Jaskier happened to be there – he wasn't an idiot, he knew that Geralt was mostly angry at himself and taking it out on him – and the worst thing wasn't that it happened, the worst thing was that Geralt didn't apologize. Not because he didn't know he'd been in the wrong, but because Jaskier simply wasn't important enough for him to warrant an apology, or any kind of action aimed toward reconciliation. That's how insignificant, how irrelevant, Jaskier was to him, and that was what drove the message home in painful clarity: Sometimes love, just like truth itself, wasn't much of a blessing._


End file.
